Work Text:
The mist of the Grand Necropolis is unlike the mist of the world outside. Cassandra is wary of it. It seems to form and shift obeying its own rules rather than those of the natural world. Often it seems to move on its own, sometimes reflecting eerie light that cannot be there. It does not feel fresh and wet, like it should. The caverns of the Necropolis can be dank, but it rather seems to be formed from the dust of death and the ages that have been laid to uneasy rest down here. Cassandra pulls her scarf up to cover her nose, as she pushes onward through the tunnels to the shifting halls, armoring herself against their seeping touch. She knew this day would eventually come, and that duty would force her return to this detested place. Her heart is heavier than she anticipated. The hollowness of loss is familiar. Her uncle is dead and she has returned to him.
Cassandra is startled out of her thoughts by a flash in the gloom. A wisp. She stops, watching it carefully. They can be trouble, but some are helpful.
“Ah, there you are!” a voice echoes up a nearby corridor. Its levity is jarring.
The voice is followed by a thin mage, around her age and neatly dressed. He hastens to the wisp, which in turn begins to drift towards her.
“Oh, well done!” he exclaims, addressing the wisp.
“Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says, deciding that introductions seem in order.
“Emmrich Volkarin.” he replies, extending his hand. “I was sent to meet you, but these halls do make it difficult sometimes to keep appointments.” His tone is almost wistful.
“They do,” Cassandra replies curtly.
He indicates for her to follow him back down the corridor. “Forgive me, you must be quite tired after your journey. I do hope we have prepared everything as your uncle would have wished.”
“I am certain you would be a better judge of that than I.”
This is the truth, but the man seems to take it as a compliment, visibly straightening with pride in his work. He begins a detailed account of the funeral arrangements. Cassandra follows him mutely until they reach a sleekly ornamented mausoleum near the Memorial Gardens marked with the golden emblem of the Prelate.
An image of uncle Vestalus appears in her memory. She is a child again, sullen in stiff brocade, listening to her uncle patiently explaining the marvels the artisans of the Necropolis made possible, the meaning of each material, symbol and technique. Watching his eyes alive more then than when talking about his family. His love was for the Grand Necropolis.
“Yes,” she says. “He would have approved very much.”